The sleet that Gu Jingci had mentioned arrived on schedule two days later in the evening.
At first, it was fine, icy rain, tapping against the parched soil and yellowed grass with a soft rustle. Soon, the rain mixed with tiny, hard snowflakes, whipped by the north wind, striking her face painfully. The temperature dropped sharply, and every exhale turned to frost.
Mu Yao was grateful that she had followed Gu Jingci’s advice. After finishing work the previous day, she had taken advantage of the dim light before full darkness to gather two bundles of relatively dry dead branches from the foot of the mountain, stacking them in the corner of the woodshed. Not much, but enough to cope with the damp cold better than nothing.
Work in the livestock shed became especially difficult in the rain and snow. The roof leaked in a few places, dripping steadily, and the ground quickly turned muddy. The animals seemed to sense the harsh weather, some growing restless. Mu Yao had to be more careful tending to them—adding drier feed, ensuring drinking water wasn’t contaminated by rain, and cleaning became even more laborious because of the mud.
She wore an oversized, rough straw raincoat that Gu Jingci had somehow acquired earlier, with a worn bamboo hat on her head, busily moving about the shed. The coarse raincoat chafed her neck red, and the hat couldn’t block the slanting rain and snow. Soon, her pant legs and cloth shoes were soaked through, icy dampness creeping up her ankles, making her teeth chatter. Her hands, just recovering from frostbite, began to ache again from the cold and wet.
Gu Jingci hadn’t come at noon. It wasn’t until evening, when the rain eased into light snow, that he trudged through the mud. He, too, wore a straw raincoat, but evidently a better-fitting one than hers. His pant legs were rolled high, and his canvas shoes were caked in mud.
He didn’t speak. First, he walked around the shed, checking for leaks, inspecting the feed and livestock. Mu Yao was using dry hay to soak up some water pooling on the floor. Seeing him enter, she stopped and greeted, “Captain Gu.”
His gaze lingered for a moment on her soaked pant legs and reddened hands, brows habitually furrowed. “Weren’t you supposed to gather firewood?” His tone was sharp, almost scolding. “Don’t know to dry your shoes?”
Mu Yao paused, realizing he was scolding her for neglecting herself. She looked down at her mud-stained shoes and whispered, “The firewood… I didn’t want to burn it in the daytime. I wanted to save it for the evening…” Nighttime was colder, and every bit of firewood had to be used sparingly.
Gu Jingci seemed momentarily struck silent, pausing for a few seconds. Only the tapping of the rain and snow on the shed roof and occasional animal sounds filled the air. He turned to the tools, rummaged around, and brought out a pair of half-worn, rudimentary straw-lined shoes (“maowozi”) and thick cloth socks, handing them to her without much gentleness.
“Put them on,” he commanded. “Wet shoes? You want frostbite and rotten feet?”
Mu Yao held the awkward but clearly dry and warm shoes and socks, momentarily stunned. This… was also prepared by him?
“Hurry!” Gu Jingci urged impatiently, already turning away, pretending to check the soybean meal bag.
Blushing, Mu Yao quickly sat on an overturned basket, back to him, slipping off her wet, cold shoes and socks. Her feet were numb and pale. She roughly wiped them with dry hay, pulled on the thick socks, and slipped into the straw shoes. The coarse straw lining immediately warmed her cold feet. Ugly as they looked, they effectively drove away the chill.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said softly, a mix of embarrassment and gratitude.
Gu Jingci said nothing. After she finished changing, he turned back, expression unreadable. “The leaks will be fixed tomorrow. Watch the feed for dampness these days. Don’t use water that’s too cold in mixing. You…” He paused, “…finish work early, go home, start a fire, dry your clothes and shoes. If there isn’t enough firewood… we’ll see tomorrow.”
“Mm,” Mu Yao nodded. That small warmth ignited a tiny flame inside her cold body.
He didn’t linger and soon disappeared into the snow again. He always came and went this way—quickly, leaving practical, awkward care, never giving her time to overthink or express gratitude.
Wearing the warm straw shoes, Mu Yao felt more capable of working. She placed her wet shoes and socks near the livestock’s heater to dry.
The sleet lasted three days. On the third afternoon, it finally cleared. The sky seemed washed clean, a vivid blue, sunlight dazzling, yet the temperature remained low. Snow lingered, making the cold feel even sharper.
Mu Yao went to gather firewood at the foot of the mountain. Most of the dead branches had already been collected, leaving only pieces that were too thin or too wet. She unconsciously walked toward the forest edge, hoping to find some thicker branches broken by the snow.
As she bent to tug at a half-buried branch, voices laughing and chatting approached.
“See? What did I tell you? She’s really capable—light work, and even someone cares about her shoes and socks!”
It was Liu Caixia, her tone sharp and unrestrained.
Mu Yao stiffened, letting go of the branch and straightening up. On the nearby path, Liu Caixia, two other female youth volunteers, and two young village wives notorious for gossip were approaching, likely gathering firewood or wild roots. Their gaze immediately fell on Mu Yao’s conspicuous, ill-matched straw shoes.
“Oh, these are really thick, look warm.” One young wife clicked her tongue, glancing at Mu Yao’s face. “Youth Volunteer Mu, Captain Gu really treats you well. We don’t even have that luck.”
“And who is she? A capitalist’s daughter, so precious!” another wife chimed in acidly. “Unlike us, digging in mud and dirt—no one cares if we freeze to death.”
Liu Caixia crossed her arms, smiling at Mu Yao’s instantly pale face, fanning the flames: “Don’t say it like that. Captain Gu cares about the youth volunteers. But Mu Yao, the gossip at our station says you have some ‘special methods’ to get a bit of care. Those shoes on your feet, could it really be…?”
“‘Special methods’?” The implication was clear—accusing her of shamelessly currying favor with the officer.
Mu Yao gripped the branch tightly, fingers pressing into the rough bark. The icy air bit into her lungs, but it couldn’t suppress the flame of humiliation and indignation. She had anticipated rumors, but not this quickly, nor this viciously. They were not only smearing her, but dragging Gu Jingci into it.
She lifted her gaze, eyes sweeping from Liu Caixia’s smug expression to the faces of others—curious or disdainful. Past weakness and fear surged, almost pushing her to flee. But no. Running wouldn’t solve anything—it would only confirm the gossip.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, voice low but clear, piercing the cold air:
“These straw shoes were lent to me by Captain Gu because he saw my shoes and socks were soaked and worried it would affect my work. Comrade Liu Caixia, as a fellow youth volunteer, you should understand the gravity of slandering a cadre and damaging the reputation of youth volunteers.” She paused, eyes fixed on Liu Caixia. “You say gossip has spread? Then please tell me who spread it and how. We’ll go to Captain Gu and the brigade secretary and clarify it face-to-face. Is someone concerned for a comrade, or someone with ill intent spreading rumors? There must be an answer.”
Her tone was calm, almost even, but each word was deliberate, carrying the cold resolve of one who had burned her bridges. Particularly when mentioning “Captain Gu” and “brigade secretary,” her gaze never wavered.
Liu Caixia hadn’t expected such a direct, assertive response, even threatening to confront them with the cadres. Her smile froze. She dared gossip behind Mu Yao’s back, seeing her as weak and isolated, but she would never risk bringing the matter to the open, especially involving Gu Jingci. Everyone knew he hated petty matters; if investigated, she would also be implicated.
The other youth volunteers and village wives sheepishly avoided her gaze, unwilling to speak. They had only followed along for fun; no one would testify in front of the cadres.
“You… what nonsense are you saying!” Liu Caixia fumed. “Who spread rumors? I just said it casually! You have nothing to hide, so why fear confrontation!”
“I have nothing to hide, so I’m not afraid of confrontation.” Mu Yao stepped closer, eyes clear and unwavering, forcing Liu Caixia back half a step. “But Comrade Liu, if it was just ‘casual talk,’ then please, in the future, be careful with your words. Unity at the youth station is important. Don’t you agree?”
Liu Caixia’s face flushed red and pale, speechless. She glared at Mu Yao, gritting out, “You’re impressive! Let’s go!” Turning and hurrying away, her retreat looked rather awkward. The others quickly followed, fearing Mu Yao might actually drag them to confront the cadres.
Only when their figures disappeared behind the trees did Mu Yao finally relax, sweat breaking out on her back. Her hands trembled slightly around the branch. That confrontation had taken nearly all her courage. She knew this was only a temporary victory; the rumors would not vanish and might even escalate due to her rebuttal.
But at least, she could no longer be bullied in silence as in her previous life.
Bending over, she resumed tugging at the branch with greater force. The rough bark scraped her calloused palms, painful yet grounding—an exhaustion born of real resistance.
Returning to the livestock shed at dusk, Gu Jingci was already there, bent over, repairing a leak in the roof. His silhouette, under the dim light, looked focused and strong.
Mu Yao put down the bundle of firewood and silently began her chores. Her straw shoes still warm, yet her feet felt almost too hot as she worked. The rumors pricked her like thorns in her heart.
After finishing the roof, Gu Jingci jumped down, dusted off his hands, and glanced at Mu Yao, sensing her unusual silence. “What’s wrong?” he asked bluntly as always.
Mu Yao hesitated. Should she tell him? Would it trouble him or confirm the nasty assumptions?
“Nothing,” she finally shook her head, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired.”
He watched her for a few seconds, asking nothing further. Going to the feed mixing tub, as usual, he stirred the feed with a stick, then said without emotion: “I went to a commune meeting today, heard some idle talk.”
Mu Yao’s heart sank, and her hands paused mid-stir.
He continued, back turned, speaking as if it were someone else’s business: “Some people, with nothing better to do, have mouths fouler than a latrine. Don’t mind them.”
Don’t mind them.
Four simple words, yet like a heavy stone thrown into her anxious heart, creating not turbulence but a strange, solid sense of calm. He didn’t ask what was said, didn’t question, didn’t show the slightest awkwardness or evasion. He just told her: don’t mind.
This meant he knew—perhaps even more clearly than she did—but he chose the most direct way that preserved her dignity: ignore it and tell her not to worry.
A rush of warmth surged unexpectedly to her eyes. Mu Yao hurriedly lowered her head, blinking hard to push back the tears. She resumed stirring the feed, with more force than ever before.
“Mm,” she murmured, nasal, yet resolute.
Gu Jingci said nothing further. The shed returned to the quiet of work alone. Yet this quiet seemed different from before. Something invisible flowed between them, keeping the filthy rumors safely outside this small space filled with feed and livestock scents.
At the end of work, Gu Jingci left first as usual. Mu Yao packed up, locked the shed, and stepped over the snow toward home. The evening sun stretched her shadow long. The straw shoes squeaked lightly on the snow.
Rumors remained. The cold persisted. But her heart, because of his four simple words, felt a courage and confidence she had never known.
She looked up at the western sky, where the sunset burned orange-red, reflecting in her clear eyes.
Gu Jingci, thank you, she whispered in her heart.
This time, I will not be defeated by rumors. For the quiet trust you give me, I will walk my path steadfastly.
Night fell. In the woodshed, Mu Yao lit the precious dry branches. The small flames leapt, dispelling the damp cold. She placed her soaked shoes and socks nearby to dry, wrapped herself in the army blanket, and stared at the calluses on her palms.
Rough. Hard. But real.
This was her path, a road she had forged step by step. Wind and snow, thorns and hardship, yet for now, calluses in hand, warmth in heart, light ahead.